Empty Will
by Hollow Choice
Summary: Chakra; a force that gives men the power of gods. I was born with this glorious power, and with the knowledge to utilize it. But... what is the worth of power, of knowledge, in the hands of one too broken to use it? The Ninja world is cruel and hateful, and life has little value. Why would mine be any different? SI.
1. Chapter 1

SO! I don't post often and I don't write often. But I suddenly got the inspiration for this, and hey, here it is! I've always been a fan of SI fics, but they often turn out so very well. This is a slightly alternate take on that.

Warnings: I am a depressed, unhappy person. This story is not going to go well. It won't start happy, it won't be happy, it probably won't end happy. I'm probably not going to ever make it past Jonin level, if that. Probably. Depends on where my muse takes me. Themes include suicide, hatred, spite, manipulation, insanity, and other looovely topics like those. I've got no betas and while I've written before I've never "published" because I never got far enough to feel it was worth it. So generally don't expect quality, and don't expect happiness.

Disclaimer: Don't own Naruto, and boy am I glad of that. Save for the money part. That'd be nice to have.

My death was petty. I did not pay attention when I should have, I twitched at an unfortunate moment, and these mistakes combined with luck to tear my truck and myself near in half in a high speed head on collision with a sixteen wheeler. No one else was involved. No one was hurt, save myself. The trucker was sufficiently unharmed to desperately shout at his phone as my consciousness faded. Being ripped in half hurt less than I expected, though so many things did, really. My family likely grieved. My friends likely did the same. The thought of it is painful, but expected. I loved them, dearly, but thinking of it later it was better to die in an accident than at my own hands, which was the other great possibility.

I am getting distracted. My death did not matter, much. I was- not normal, any more than anyone. I was a depressed, mildly suicidal highly intelligent extreme introvert from a family with a long history of producing highly intelligent, eccentric introverts. I had a love of history, and of historical reenactment. I had read somewhere between one and two thousand books over my life, possibly more, and spent the majority of my time reading. I had a few close knit friends that I gained more or less by accident. I was egotistic and moderately self obsessed even as I was mired in self loathing. I could go on- self analysis was always a hobby of mine.

But my life was uninteresting from an outside perspective; as was my death. Everyone was unique, everyone had a sob story. And every story has an end.

And that's where my story does become interesting, for my story did not end with my death. Or rather, my first death.  
>For, but a moment after I closed my eyes for what had seemed to be the final time, I found myself struck across the backside, my eyes flying open in shock. My mind, but a moment ago blurred with shock and pain, raced. How could I feel anything below the waist, oddly numb and bloated though the feeling was? My waist was a mere smear of blood and gore, ripped apart by the same old steel framed car that had once protected me.<p>

I was given no answers, not at first. My vision was blurred beyond any hope of visibility; no shock for a man with eyesight as bad as mine, but this was worse than even my abysmal usual. I could see nothing but oddly warm blurs of color, as if the world was made of ink and had been soaked until it ran. My hearing was likewise off; the world echoed oddly and loudly in my ears, and the words I did catch were unrecognizable. Even my sense of smell was off, though less noticeably. It was hard not to recognize the stench of blood when one had just been coated in one's own vital fluid. And through my body roared a feeling like a raging river, cold and powerful all at once.

Assaulted by this alteration of my senses, combined with my own recent death-delusion- or was I in the hospital- I passed out.

My second awakening was more peaceful than the first, at least. My senses were still distorted, though thankfully the smell of blood was gone. Thinking was difficult, like every thought had to push through viscous slime. The strange feeling remained. I was lying on something soft, and I could hear nothing save an occasional long distorted beep. Was I in a hospital, crippled for life? I felt exhausted, and fell asleep soon after.

My third awakening was abrupt. I was hauled up as if I were a sack of flour, cradled against warm cloth over a human body, and nearly force fed some sort of fluid through a suction based container- It did not take long to connect my strange, bloated body, the circumstances of my first awakening, and the bottle I sucked upon in desperate hunger. I was an infant. Reborn, given a new lease on life. And now I was, presumably given the generally antiseptic white blurs I saw around myself, in a hospital while my new mother recovered.

New mother. God I already missed my mothers. Old mothers, now, I suppose. They were so wonderful, so kind, so loving and yet strong... If my new family was half as competent, I would be blessed beyond measure. The fact that the vast majority of parents were far less ideal than my previous (and how that hurt!) family lurked close to the front of my mind.  
>If they abused me, I would- I did not know. My pride would demand retribution, but I was so much smaller and weaker, and while I could still ruin them, it would surely be at dire cost. A cost best spent only if absolutely necessary. But given that, how would I respond- I was running ahead of myself. Best not to assume, lest it taint my actions.<p>

As I thought, I noticed that the individual (Woman? Their chest was soft, but that could be the clothing) handled me rather roughly, which given what I remembered of infant physiology could be fatal. It did not seem malicious, but unintentional, a sign of poor training or possibly exhaustion? I did not know.

That brought up another thought. While, logically, the most likely situation given the apparently modern hospital (or so I assumed, my vision was hardly acute enough to see specifics, but it did not feel like a home of any sort) was that Buddhism and similar faiths were correct to some degree, and reincarnation was the rule. Problem; I still had my memories. As few sane people claimed to remember the whole of their lives, either I would lose my memories over the next few months/years, the reincarnation mechanism was faulty, a god or similar being had taken an interest in me, I was some sort of strange exception, the world was stranger than could be assumed already, or I was in an SI scenario.

None of those ideas were pleasant to contemplate. The last was the most palpable- I highly doubted that a proper "Self Insert" scenario had occurred- the concept of being a merely a pawn for some sort of authorial deity character was both insulting, unlikely, and terrifying- but rather I meant the concept of being born into a new, possibly previously fiction world. Hopefully it would be a pleasant one, preferably entirely unknown to me fictional or otherwise, for few of the fiction worlds I knew of that were relatively modern were pleasant. Though being in the DC universe would be tolerable. Even with all the super-shenanigans and terrors, being able to see Superman would be worth it.

My stomach was full, and I ceased suckling at the artificial teat-bottle, and was soon after gently dumped in my bed.

In truth, being in a more fantastic universe would be supremely gratifying, assuming it wasn't an awful one like Berserk (not modern, bless every god that could be) or Worm (unfortunately modern). I had always wished for life to be less... banally mundane. I was a sensate, a hedonistic lover of sensation and experiences, and the world I had been born in, for all its scientific wonders and natural beauties had unfortunately made experiencing the vast majority of the world financially impossibly or ludicrously difficult. The strange feeling indicated that that was the case. It would be marvelous to be in a world where personal power was reasonable to achieve and relevant, a world where the individual could matter as more than just a frontman...

I drifted off to sleep.

The next few dozen awakenings reminded me, for all my contemplations, of a miserable fact; I was an infant. My vision improved relatively rapidly, but even so I could perceive little. More irritating was my miniscule control of my body; I could wobble, gurgle, and flail, and little else. Even defecation was out of my power. If I were an adult, it would be humiliating beyond reason. Even as is, I spent no little amount of time cursing mentally.

Rather more worryingly, while my perception of time was rendered irrelevant by the lack of windows (how odd was that, in a hospital? Perhaps they were afraid we would catch a cold from a draft... worrying. Please don't be a zombie flick.) and frequent and irregular naps, it had assuredly been at least a few days since my rebirth, and yet not once had I seen anyone other than hospital workers. That... that said very bad things about my familial situation. It did not necessarily mean I was a proper orphan; I knew of many people in my previous life who would do their best to abandon an infant as soon as possible, and in such an event whatever other family would be unaware of me for at least a while. Or perhaps my mother was merely recovering, and I was either "fatherless" or my father was too busy...

Regardless, it boded ill. Abandoned, immediately orphaned, or neglected. An unpleasant array of choices.

Interesting note; I could now see well enough to take note of the worker's clothing. It did not resemble any I had seen in American hospitals, indicating I was in a foreign nation. This was further enforced by the language, which resembled no speech I had heard in my life. It was most similar to an Asian language, possibly Japanese, but- not quite. Too harsh and quick, not just in tone but pronunciation. Not that I was an expert in Japanese, but my guess was that it was a related but different language.

... Which indicated I was not on earth. As far as I was aware, the closest language related to Japanese was one or more of the Chinese languages, and the gape between them was wide indeed. An artifact of the relative isolation of the Japanese islands. Perhaps, what was the people, the... Ainu? A group that lived on the northernmost Japanese Island. But I did not think so.

Most of the workers, upon further inspection, tended towards three groups. Elderly, exhausted, and clearly untrained, extremely young (between 12 and 16), exhausted, and out of their depth, and mid twenties, differently uniformed, and barely conscious. Many smelled deeply of blood, old and new.

The whole situation reeked of either disaster or terrible mismanagement.

It has been at least six weeks, and I now know where I am. A blonde boy arrived in the nursery, and attempted to take an infant. He stank of fresh blood, and was wielding a dripping trowel-like knife. He was barely less than a man, seventeen or sixteen at the oldest, and just managed to life my neighbor before being attacked by several of the adult hospital workers, who wrestled the blade from his hand and rendered him unconscious, ignoring his frantic screams. They dragged him out shortly after placing the infant (Also blonde, and now crying loudly) back in his crib-bed thing.

Most notably, he wore what I could easily note as a forehead protector, ala Naruto.

This was not bad, this was catastrophic. Naruto, a world in which miraculous life energy power capable of creating moons, manipulating the fabric of space and time, and reanimating armies of the death was held near exclusively in the hands of a militarily dominant culture of deeply traumatized mercenary assassins, wherein power was nearly synonymous with tragedy and mental illness, where to hold power was to be a bloody tool and to not was to be at the utter mercy of the merciless. Wherein the "kindest" of these dictatorial mercenary groups had a torture department, considered child soldiers as young as children of six relatively normal, and produced four of the most twisted monsters in the setting and was co-founded by the worst, a man who sought to bring peace by permanent enslavement...

My fragile infant body passed out from the shock.

And thus the feeling within me was almost certainly chakra.

It had been something, perhaps, like three months now, and it was very obvious that I was an orphan or abandoned. Given Konoha, and given that I had slowly learned enough of the language to realize that the frantic speech of our increasingly exhausted caretakers was a discussion of a war, either was possible, with the former more likely. Given the occasional mentions of a "White Fang" and "Sandaime-sama"...

I would probably guess that it was the Second Shinobi Secret War or whatever, as I seem to remember that the White Fang caused the Third and would not be spoken of with anything resembling reverence.

Regardless, I would have expected to have been collected by family members by now. Either I was entirely unwanted (fully possible), or I simply had none.

I was beginning to earn a reputation as a troubled child, for my sleep was rarely easy.

I have learned my name. I am Dai Yamamoto.

I have spoken my first word. I am likely not more than five months old. I have spent many hours thinking this over, and in truth I am frightened of what this could mean. To reveal myself as intelligent so early would be to be labelled "prodigy", and that would mean I was instantly noticed. My life would become near public property, and I would be under immense pressure; pressure that I was unsure that I could handle.

But if I wished to change the ninja system, I needed power. To get power, I needed training. Prodigies got both, in spades. I would break or shine.

I refused to be just another ninja, and being a civilian was unacceptable. Power was in my reach and I could no more ignore it than I could suffocate myself just by holding my breath. Futile to even try. But to be a ninja was to submit to a system that glorified turning oneself into an immoral tool, to utterly subsume oneself under the banner of serving a community that devoured children and shat out bodies and madmen. A system in which the power of gods was in the hands of the very worst sort, a system that perpetuated monstrosity, bloodshed, and worse.

Now, mankind was never a particularly pretty thing, when seen in all its... glory, but ninja society took that to its darkest depths. A hilarious thing, in a colorful manga. Perhaps Naruto would one day fix it, but that was decades away, and uncertain at best. If I had power, I could try to change it. If I did not, I would suffer whatever came.

... additionally, I feared for myself. Danzo was very active, at this time, and I did not wish to wind up his tool. ROOT was the very epitome of my nightmares, utterly broken murderous puppets serving another brand of madman, even if I could respect his dedication to his ideals. I was myself, my pride demanded no less, and to be made such a broken slave was terrible beyond measure. I respected service, I idolized duty, but loyalty had to be given to be worth anything. Taking it was monstrous.

Making myself visible would make "disappearing" me into ROOT too dangerous.  
>And so, after careful preparation, I waited until a doctor was in the room with me, and I called out to him. "Food!" I shouted, in this strange Japanese-like language. I did not look forward to learning however many writing systems they had here.<p>

The doctor flinched, stared at me in incredulous shock, and then began shouting for nurses to come and wonder at my brilliant. Hah. More seriously, they did seem quite enamored, particularly after gathering around me and "convincing" me to repeat myself several more times. I decided to spice it up by also saying "chakra" a word used often. They only ceased wondering over me and muttering about "prodigies" when one of my neighbors started crying. I could not help but note at least one nurse/doctor (they did not seem to have the same distinction, but rather the primary one was between chakra using doctors, and purely mundane assistants) gave me rather frightened looks.

Over the next week, I continued performances like this, attempting to show a gradual growth. As I had previously been noted as an observant, quiet child, I hoped that this would be convincing. Thank the gods that babies are so non-threatening.

I was wrong.

At some point in the "night" (designated by lighting being off for longer periods), a doctor and a man in what I recognized as stereotypical chuunin armor came in, and woke me thereby. They spoke quietly, the man signed a paper, and then I was lifted out of my bed and handed to him.

He walked directly out of the room, taking me for the first time out of the nursery, down empty halls, ignoring the one or two workers still up, who ignored him in turn save for a look or two, out to a lobby, through what seemed a security checkpoint after a moment speaking with a chuunin there, and out into a tree filled street. A sudden blurred sensation later, and we stood before a nondescript building in a slum area. Within was simply a tenement-like apartment lobby, manned by a slouched man who did not even look at the chuunin carrying me.

Deliberately and carefully, he carried me to a basement door, took me down to said basement, and made a turn through a solid wall. I gave a slight shriek, and had my mouth immediately and brusquely covered. Past the wall, far less solid than previously thought, was a dark stairway which led down, deep, very deep, until reaching a tunnel which we must have walked down, curving right, left, up, and down, with a labyrinthine layout and dozens of side tunnels the man carrying me navigated with ease.

At some point, I fell asleep, cursing my abysmal infant stamina.

Luckily, or perhaps not, I awakened just as we reached our destination; a large, heavily reinforced stone and metal door. The man reached out a finger, and with a sudden shockingly strong stench of blood black symbols reached out across the door, glowed brightly, and then faded, along with the door itself.

Just beyond was a large, dim, hall like room, made of stone and concrete, with many doors and corridors along each side. And, more importantly, a single, one eyed, bandaged man in the center, watching us silently.

_Danzo._

He looked upon the chuunin impassively, devoid of even a hint of expression.

"Is that the child?"

His voice was a quiet rasp, nothing like what I had imagined.

"Yes, Danzo-sama. The acquisition was without trouble."

The Chuunin's voice, once alive if rather unmemorable, was blank, lifeless. A ROOT agent.

"Good. Only a few loose ends to silence."

Danzo looked upon me for the first time, his expression empty, and yet... satisfied.

"Every generation, there are but a few so called prodigies, and they are the ones who define that generation. Sakumo. Hiruzen. His students, the newly dubbed Sannin... and perhaps now this child. He will serve Konoha as the newest of its ROOTs, trimmed and grown just to bestprotect its darker interests... He is now dubbed "Kubo". Take him to the nursery."

No, no no nononono

"Yes, Danzo-sama."

"Tell Ish that his training is to begin immediately. And test his resilience."

Please god _no_-

The chuunin nodded, and took me down one of the many hallways. After a few turns, he arrived at an unmarked door, and entered. Within was a room utterly at odds with what I had seen before, full of bright colors and toys and light and other paraphernalia typical of the rooms of children. Around the edges of the room was a set of three grey boxes draped with dull cloth.

A dull masked woman stood in the center of the room, carefully mixing what appeared to be formula. She looked up, blankly staring at the us.

"Danzo-sama commands Kubo's training to begin immediately, and that you test his resilience."

He offered me to the woman, and she took me in her arms.

"As he commands. Please inform Danzo-sama that it is almost time for feeding."

He turned and left without a word, and before the door was even shut the woman took me over to one of the grey, cloth draped boxes. Using her spare arm to lift aside the cloth, she revealed it to be a metal box covered in holes with a lid on the top. As she lifted the lid, I saw that it contained a flush, comfortable looking black inside, similar to my bed in the hospital...

No, no no _please_ don't tell me-

She placed me in the box, shut and locked, LOCKED, the lid, and draped the cloth back over it, covering the air-holes and leaving me in perfect darkness.

There was a surge for a moment, and then I could not even hear her footsteps.

I... I...

I _screamed_.

And no one came.

I spent a small eternity in utter darkness. There were no sounds, no smells beyond what I produced, nothing. I was hungry and frightened and no one came to aid me. It was a nightmare.

After those four hours, the cloth was lifted, and the box opened. I cannot express the relief I felt as the dim light of the bright room burned through my eyes. It was a welcome pain.

The scarred, bandaged face that peered into the box was not. Danzo lifted me out of the box surprisingly gentle, murmuring soothingly to me as I whimpered at the change in light levels. He set me down gently on a changing table, and changed my diaper, which had been soiled several times in the darkness. Then, he fed me, and burped me. All very gently, slowly, and softly.

It was horrifying. I knew what he was doing. I knew what he intended even as he started reading a simplified story book on chakra natures in that same, soothing, raspy voice.

Despite my suspicions, I couldn't help but cry when, after all that outward kindness, he lowered me back into the box, and I was left once more in darkness.

I was right.

The pattern of my days were thus; I would be sealed in the box until I soiled myself dangerous, or several hours passed. Then Danzo, or someone henged as Danzo, would lift me out of the box, take care of me, play with me, read to me, and otherwise treat me with kindness and gentleness, if sternly.

The pattern was interrupted irregularly by black clad strangers, who would jerk me out roughly into the same room with far less lighting, shake me around, slap me just hard enough to sting, scream at me, and shine horribly bright lights directly into my eyes. They would continue this until I cried myself hoarse, then lower me back down with cruel taunts. Worthless. Abandoned. Unloved. These hurt more than I expected, even knowing what was intended.

Sometimes, such a session would be followed by the same, cruelty upon cruelty. Sometimes, I would go several feedings between sessions. More often, after a session Danzo would comfort me, tell me how it was necessary, how it hurt him to hurt me but I needed it, I needed to suffer to be strong.

Danzo was brain washing me. All kindness came from Danzo. All food; Danzo. All comfort, all care; Danzo. From every other quarter came suffering and cruelty.

My mind is that of a man, but no man is immune, and my brain is that of an infant. Even knowing exactly what he intended, I found myself looking forward to his visits, craving his company. If he wasn't there, I was either being mistreated or suffering in maddening sensory deprivation.

I hated Danzo, I hated ROOT, I hated Konoha, and I hated everything Ninja.

And I prayed to every god, to Jesus, to Zeus, to the Shinigami, to whatever and whoever would listen, to nothing at all, that I would continue to hate.

Thus went two years of my life.

Danzo taught me to walk. He helped me speak more concisely. He taught me a bit of reading, though only the basics of the basic ninja-script and the common civilian script. Similiar to the more basic Japanese writing systems, Hirigana and Katanaka or such. I could not remember. Kanji, or rather the local formal courtly equivalent, would come later. He was there for every hallmark of childhood, and always he seemed pleased with my progress. His praise was rare, but always came with rewards. He treated me like I was his loyal son, as if I was not assaulted near every day on his orders. I asked him why, once. I will not forget his words.

"Because you are a root, small and young. Because you support the great tree of Konoha, and must be strong to bear its weight. Because you can endure it, for you are strong."

It was so hard to remember how cruel it was. So hard to not make excuses for him. The fiction never showed him like this. He was utterly self-serving there, with broken pawns and so many poorly chosen missions... he created Kabuto because he tried to kill him for being "too good" of a spy!

... how could this man be the same as that one?

I don't know. But I still hated Danzo. I still hated Root. I despised Konoha, and I despised Ninja. For all that was done to me. For making nearly my only choice, my only hope of living to obey those at tormented me.

When I finally managed to throw my first punch, as he showed me, he took me out of the box-room, down the hallway, and to a small, spartan living quarter.

I kept silent. Danzo never liked unnecessary works. He never punished me, but he would give me a disappointed look, and then not show up for a time. Hunger, deprivation, and the sessions without reprieve were far more effective chastisements than a cuff to the head.

"This is your room. You have proven yourself a strong root, and will be trained to be stronger. Do you have any questions?"

This was a test. I had failed it before. He didn't want me questioning him; ever.

He smirked, slightly, and ruffled my hair. I leaned into the gesture. I hated the man, but I had always loved physical contact, and this life was no different. He provided such gestures rarely, and only when I... behaved.

"Act as a root should."

I would, not for him, but for myself.

He left, and I was alone.

This was the first time I was unsupervised in my new life. The first chance I had to free myself. The room was spartan in the extreme, a simple futon, concrete walls and a matted floor. Besides the door was a wooden chest, presumably for clothing. It was enough.

I walked to futon, striped out of the incredibly simple clothing I been given as I grew, a dark grey shirt, a dark grey pair of pants, loincloth like folded undergarments.

I contemplated them for a moment, before selecting the shirt. It was the best size, and I did not want to deal with the... unpleasantness of my undergarments. I was far less sweaty than as an adult, and had taken greater control of my bowels than I had suffered as an infant, but accidents still occurred.

My shirt did not rip easily, but when leveraged against the edge of the chest it came apart, into more manageable chunks. Immediately, I swallowed one.

Choking to death was a miserable way to go, and I was almost immediately on my hands and knees, muffled gasps and hacking failing to dislodge my suicide implement.

This would seem extreme to most. Death is so often viewed as a terrifying thing, and suicide a horror, a result most likely of Abrahamic teachings- certainly the Romans fully supported suicide over dishonorable capture or the worst of defeats.

But I had good reason. I was trapped in ROOT, slowly being twisted into thinking that the man enslaving me was a figure of paternal love, to be obeyed... a nightmare by any reasoning. I would live a short, brutal life before dying for the betterment of my abuser, a tool to the end.  
>Others might argue that I should note. That I should strive to escape, make something of myself, somehow become a terrifying S ranked monster and take revenge or save everyone or something equally impossible. But I was no true prodigy, no true genius. Intelligent, yes, but special only for my memories, and they spoke of tens of thousands of ninjas who were simply cannon fodder, of a future without hope, with my best achievement being burned to death by a Hunter-nin, or serving the same foul, rotten village that allowed for this fate.<p>

And... I was not the same as I was in my last life. There were no mirrors here, but I had seen my hair. It was a black and prone to spikes. And Danzo had said my eyes were brown, once. My skin was almost ruddy, and I was far smaller than I had been even at this age, in another life.

But... one thing had followed me, at least a little.

Depression.

I had been born with it, in my last life, and it had dogged me from the beginning. Inherited from my father. My life was defined by misery, apathy, paranoid impulses and unhealthy extreme anxiety. Some sort of hormonal imbalance; I had never bothered to get an explanation after I found pills that left me able to function relatively humanly... in my early twenties. My psych had been shaped and scared by two decades of self loathing, incredible apathy, mood swings, irrational paranoia, and rising misery by then. I was unhealthy and prone to suicidal thoughts.

And, amusingly, I only turned to those pills after I became so miserable suicide switched from a potential escape to a longed after oblivion, when I found myself spending every waking moment ripping myself apart in self loathing or wishing for the sweet embrace of death. Luckily, I found those pills, and I was able to recover, go back to college, and begin salvaging my life.

I did not know how bad it would get or what form it would eventually take in this life, but it had already manifested in one form, at least. Apathy. The grey depression. Every day was a struggle to keep going, and only the fact that any slacking would result in terrible chastisement kept me going.

This universe had chakra healing, but from what I remembered its traditional technology and medicine was far less developed than mine. And given everything we saw of the Shinobi forces, they seemed to have little to no understanding of mental illness. If they did, Sasuke and Itachi would both have been taken aside and given counseling long before what occurred.

Without medicine, I would not live beyond twenty-five, and the whole experience would be a bitter, crushing misery. Even without ROOT, death would be tempting, if possibly ignored to try out Chakra and its magical wonders, for a time. With ROOT...

People always talk about having their choices taken away. But such situations are truly rare. There is almost always a choice, of some sort. Here, even as a toddler in the middle of a secret organization of brainwashed minions, I had a choice. Suffer, or die.

I choose to die a man, rather than live a miserable tool.

Darkness crept around the edges of my vision, and my final thoughts before it claimed me, as my door banged open and footsteps filled the room, was victorious. Damn you Danzo, and damn your machinations. Damn you kindness and all. I am free.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Right, second part/chapter. Had a good time writing this, though it feels somewhat stilted; but all my writing does so oh well! My general plan for updates is 1 per week, either a chapter or at least a snippet. If I can manage more I will, but no promises.

Oh, yes, I figured I should note something. I, and thus the SI, am bisexual with a slight preference for men. Now, I don't think this is going any time soon, what with him being rather young, terrified, and traumatized, but if he does get to the point where he is capable of romantic interest, he's got a good chance of going for a fellow. If he gets a choice about it. A lot of people feel sensitive about that subject, so I figured I'd warn you all. I should note that the chances of a "pairing" with any canon character is astronomically small; first off most of them haven't been born yet, and second the SI is going to be avoiding them as hard as he can. Emotionally, if not physically. Plus, that whole sort of thing always felt scummy to me.

And for the two folks that reviewed, thank you, it really is surprisingly encouraging. I hadn't expected it to be, but hey, nice surprise.

Chapter 2

I won. I won, and never has a victory been so harmful.

I was born anew, as I had feared, and hoped. It took me nearly two days to realize this fact.

The human mind is a funny thing. We so often view emotional and mental pain as a transitory or inconsequential thing, as if no injury beyond the physical can be crippling. My experience is that the reverse is true. Bones and bruises heal; pain is ignorable, but mental trauma can cripple you for many, many years, if not forever. Incidents that one expects to simply move on from end up crippling you, especially in one's youth.  
>Such was the case for my suicide.<p>

My death was painful, slow, and very, very visceral. I died over nearly five minutes of desperately hacking and coughing to clear my throat and stomach of a piece of cloth. When I was first reborn, I was nearly catatonic. I did not respond or pay attention to my surroundings, my mind numb and slow. I believe they thought I was near dead or unconscious, until they attempted to swaddle my newly infant body in a blanket. I do not remember screaming, but I am quite sure I did. All I remember was the cloth around me, creeping in and on my throat and mouth.

Blankets and coverings still terrify me. In my previous life I found anything that covered my throat, necklace, scarf, or tie, to be very uncomfortable. Now any cloth that covers my mouth or throat sends me into a panic attack.

It was this very fear that awoke me from my fugue, two days after my third birth. It saved my life.

I was resting in what I would later realize was my crib, a small, cramped blue cushion ringed with steel bars and a protective glass shield around it that could be lifted aside to interact with me. I was still deep in my trauma induced fugue, and did not notice the glass being moved aside, slowly and with difficulty. I did not notice a small form, gigantic relative to my miniscule body, lowering itself within my crib. I did not notice my pillow being taken from the foot of my resting area where I had hurled it in a panic earlier.

I only noticed when that pillow was pressed against my head.

I became conscious immediately, barely aware of the past two days and utterly befuddled even as panic and fear caused me to scream futilely into the pillow suffocating me. Why, what, who, these thoughts rang through my head even as I weakly flailed my limbs. For all that I had killed myself but a few days ago, I was desperate to live. I pushed at my assailant, I hurled all of my strength towards them, to no avail. I could hear my soon to be killer speaking above me, but the pillow stealing my breath prevented me from hearing much.

There are few creatures more helpless than a human infant.

My last body had felt cold and powerful and wet inside, like a river had flowed through my veins. This body felt like I had muscles and nerves all along my internal structure, brimming with living strength. In my desperate flailing for any escape, or perhaps out of pure luck, I managed to catch a small part of that feeling, and I pushed it upwards. My screams redoubled as I felt something tear out of my infantile chest, and rip through the pillow and into something hard above. Unfortunately, this did not shift the pillow, nor remove its weight, though some of the pressure did ease, allowing me a slight ability to breath. I kept shifting, panic desperately driving me to attempt to wriggle out of the smothering cloth while my assailant was dead or distracted. Unfortunately, whatever had erupted from my (bleeding, agonized, wounded) chest remained in place, holding the pillow against me.

There are few creatures more helpless than a human infant. I suppose I was lucky that I was not a normal human infant. Lucky. Hah.

Someone else was screaming. The same voice that had spoken earlier. It, unlike my own muffled cries, brought a response.

The door to my room burst open, and several sets of footsteps entered. I heard what sounded like a curse, though I hardly noticed. After a moment, the weight attached to the end of my... eruption was removed, and with a rip so was the pillow.  
>My infant eyes were far better, this life, than they were in previous ones, far more developed. I saw the broken skin of my chest with relative clarity. And the sharp, serrated spike of bone that speared out of it, covered in blood and clear fluid, only the former my own. I saw a young, perhaps seven year old girl, screaming as she cradled one of her eyes, now but a bleeding ruined socket. I saw a pale, shirtless, white haired man scowling and shouting at her to shut up as he directed a glowing green hand to her head. And I saw a disgusted young man and woman, who were likewise pale but black haired, holding kunai and glaring around the room, the woman with my ripped and bloody pillow in hand.<p>

"Fucking worthless! Idiot, what the fuck did you think you were doing, trying and failing to kill an infant! If doing so hadn't revealed my son's talent, I would kill you now, you worthless child of mine!"

And that was my introduction to my father, and my sister, Kaguya Haito and Kaguya Akushitsuna, and the clan of my birth.

Haito, after castigating my older sister for failing so utterly as to be "crippled by a mewling bone-broken newborn", stopped her bloodloss and hurled her into the sneering arms of the young woman, who I would later learn was my aunt, Kaguya Emi with instructions to "get her ready for a transplant so she won't be totally useless.". The young man, uncle Kiaro, which didn't translate well into either English or what I knew of Japanese but meant "Blood Love" in this universe's strange faux-japanese, now more amused than anything, remained behind.

My apparent parent then turned to me, and far more gently tended to my wounds, using... some sort of connecting by extending his forearm (femur?) bone and actively fusing it with my chest spike to... I wasn't certain what he did, but the spike shrank and returned to a more normal rib cage alignment, leaving bloody holes in my skin that he passed his glowing hand over, closing them. The feeling was extremely soothing, at utter odds with what I had seen but a moment ago. I am deeply thankful for that, because I am not certain I could have maintained my composure (or my shocked numbness) otherwise, given my near death after recovering from a suicide and maiming a little girl. A murderous little girl, but still.

As he healed me, he whispered in my ears in an obvious attempt to sooth me, given that I had been panicked and screaming a moment ago. A mixture of lullabies and soft praises for... for defending myself, and for maiming his daughter, and being strong, and having such "strong blood, strong bones, strong hatred, my little hate, my little Hani."

It worked. There is something about an infant brain that just cannot help but be comforted by the praise and soothing voice of one's parents, and I drifted into a sleepy daze, though not a full sleep.

And I was thankful I did not fully fall asleep, for it allowed me to hear a short conversation between my new relatives. Something I'd contemplate for years to come.

"Soooo. Haito. Why, exactly did your first little spawn try and kill the new one? I mean, I've heard of taking out the competition, but this is a bit early, innit?"

My... father snorted and turned away from me. "She was jealous. Apparently she thinks Hani's death would give I and Naoko more time to spend with her. Idiot. I've no interest in dealing a brat like her. And I had no interest in this little brat either, until this."

My uncle was out of my range of view, but I got the distinct feeling he was smirking.

"It is unusual for a spawn to have and show the bone pulse, let alone so early. And a spike from the ribs at that, that fast... your firstborn spawn was lucky she didn't get stabbed through the brain. An inch longer and she'd be dead."

Haito scoffed. "And it would have served her right. Attacking one of my blood is one thing, but failing to kill an infant, even if he has such strong blood? It is clear he is the mightier. Her death would have been right, a wonderful start to his career."

"Mmh, well, I can see you've got plans for him. Just try not to get too attached. The clan head's brat hasn't shown even a hint of the blood. I wouldn't be surprised if the Head strangled "little Hate" himself to discourage competition. So few of us show any sign of the Pulse, so you know what kind of danger the new spawn is."

Haito snarled loudly. "He can try. I'm not afraid of him. Nor of my son."

"You should be. Of both. The Head's a scary fucker. I know I'm afraid of him. Hell, I think the whole village is afraid of him, save for maybe the Sandaime. And a Pulse user can kill even a Jonin like you."

"I am no coward. I am Kaguya Haito, and I will bow before no one, even if it means my death. If the Head seeks my heir's death, I will end him. And my son will crush his brat."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. Just remember that we won't die with you."

With that, I heard him pull away, and the last thing I heard before the door shut and I fell into sleep was a muttered "coward..." from my new father.

Fucking hell this was not my week.

I still haven't gotten over my new cloth phobia. It took twenty years to get over my fear of heights and fear of spiders in my past life, I shudder to think of how long a cloth near my head will send me into spasms and tactile hallucinations. It is worse than the other phobias ever were.

It has been four years, and I've learned quite a bit about my new clan, my new family, and my new village.

First, the Kaguya are insane. I shouldn't be surprised, since the only reason my father gives a fuck about me is that I goddamn maimed my sister when she tried to suffocate me.

The Kaguya are a clan of berserkers, swordsmen and close combat taijutsu specialists that focus on sheer ferocity and viciousness over any real style or finesse. Despite what my father and uncle had implied, every member of the clan had some of the "Bone Pulse" bloodline, but in most, as in nearly the entire clan it manifested as merely more durable bones and a significantly greater resistance to trauma, save for me, the current Head (who nobody mentions the name of, simply calling him the "Head" behind his back and Kaguya-sama to his face), and a sickly girl I was introduced to once who died soon after. Apparently the bloodline sometimes comes with an illness of the lungs; probably what Kiminmario- Orochimaru's lackey, had. Well, some clan members also could project one or two individual and specific bones, which were popular as swords. My father was one of those elite, and could pop out his thighbone and left-forearm bone, which he used in a sort of sword and main gauche style. The clan resistance to trauma, even greater in me for actually possessing the bloodline proper, is probably why I didn't pass out as soon as I weaponized my goddamn ribcage to take out the eye of my sibling. I still don't know a lot about our role in the village- the Kaguya are blunt and not terribly adept or interested in hiding information so I know more than I would in most clans, but even so an infant and even a toddler in training misses a lot. We seemed to be the Sandaime's enforcers, as he is the only outsider the clan speaks of with respect; which meant that we did a lot of in house "policing" which in Kirigakure meant maiming and murdering.

The Kaguya did a lot of that. Interestingly, the clan's second specialization was as medics; probably because the bloodline made studying the human (or not so human, even non-actively blooded clan members were apparently significantly different physiologically from a normal human) body second nature, and because of the violence endemic to the clan. I saw no less than one maiming a week, and that was as an infant largely kept either in my room or my father's arms. So if we didn't have so many medics, or were a bit less durable, half the clan would probably be dead in a month.

Whenever my father took me out to the village we would be viewed with extreme fear and terrified respect; as if he was just one irritant away from murder... which honestly wasn't too far from the truth. My father was a vicious and brutal man; any sign of disrespect was punished with death, or at least bloodloss. Other clans (including, from what I saw, a fellow that rode on an icy floating platform, a large shark-guy, one child who turned to water accidentally mid stride, and two women who looked like glowing lantern fish with human bodies) seemed to get similiar treatment, as did the one elite, anbu-ish figure I saw.

The clan was not much kinder to its own members; Might Was Right, and if you could take something it was yours. Cowardice was the lowest sin, and any who showed it were abused mercilessly. Death was nothing special and a fear of death was pathetic. Love was scoffed at, and family was only a connection. There was some displays of affection, but on the whole it seemed like the prevailing attitude was that strength came from self-reliance and personal power alone- a far cry from the protagonist Leaf village. As such, family was... more a suggestion than a reality. The only moderate exception was children, as even the Kaguya cared at least a little for those that followed them. Loving a child was considered being soft, but more accepted than caring for anyone who wasn't a lesser by nature. The clan head supposedly feared me for my bloodline, though I never saw it, and only saw him in person twice, both times at yearly gatherings. He was big and shirtless and looked kinda like a wickerman made of bones. Apparently he liked flaunting his bloodline. He certainly didn't seem very afraid of me, but I was wary.

Speaking of, anyone with the proper bloodline was feared greatly by the rest of the clan, for in a clan of the mighty none were as potentially strong or disturbing as the wielders of the Dead Bone Pulse. The clan head was almost always one such wielder, and given that the position was taken and held through force alone, such fear was understandable. Hard not to fear someone who killed the most powerful member of the clan with his own body parts.  
>As for my family...<p>

My mother was mocked for being sentimental, despite being personally very strong. Perhaps I could have gained succor and comfort from her, but after my maiming of her "precious little girl" with the Pulse, she seemed to view me as nothing less than a monster in human form. Hah. I remember when she first called me that. Monster. It was when I was around two, and Akushitsuna tried to shove me over and take my toy kunai, one of the only toys I had. I shoved her back, and used my Pulse to reinforce my bones to do it, so she was near tossed off her feet. "Mother" rushed over and cradled her as Akushitsuna started shouting at me and crying. I tried to protest, and got a look of utter venom and fear in return.

"Shut up, you little monster."

She had always been rather cold to me, and had always favored Akushitsuna, but that... that was a first, though not the last time. I was raised by two mothers in my first life, and to be hissed at, like a monster, like a threat, was...  
>My sister was another issue. I loathed her. She was a child, and I was willing to forgive much of children, but she was a wretched, manipulative little shit. So much so that I was often tempted to end her life myself, despite my morals and despite the guilt I had initially felt every time I looked at her mismatched green and brown eyes. The latter being her new one. I... given what I knew of the Kaguya, I doubted it was given voluntarily.<p>

She seemed to think that my existence negated hers, that my death would lead to her ascendency to not only Naoka's favorite but also father's. Possible an accurate thought, though at this point I think Father would kill her for frustrating his plans. Either way, she coveted Father's care despite having Mo-Naoka's already. Want what you don't have, I suppose. She was my rival, and not a friendly one. Apparently she was bigger than most; despite having thought she was seven when I first came, she was actually five. Now, she was nine, and a member of the Mist Academy. I could only hope that the graduation exam, assuming the famous one Zabuza spoke of wasn't instituted by Yondaime Yagura, would kill her off for me. Because as much as I did not want to end her life... she was eager to end mine. I'm not the sort to let that go.

Fuck. I speak of hating a goddamn five-to nine year old. Let me give an example of behavior to explain that. One of her favorite little tricks, for she fancied herself a prankster, was to take a blanket, preferably a very nonthreatening one in pink or blue, and drape it around me when I was either too young to do anything but scream, or distracted once I got older. She'd then pull over as many clan children as she could, and make mocking me a clan sport.

That stopped once I learned how to fire my fingerbones like projectiles. Thank you, father.

Father was the only one I cared for in my new family, and the only one that seemed to care for me. He was a brutal, vicious asshole who dominated the family less through brute strength, being, in truth, the shortest and physically weakest of the adults (something I inherited, much to my dismay), but instead through sheer bloody minded will. Nobody in the family, or in the clan as a whole save the Head dared speak against him, because they knew once his temper was aroused it could be soothed only with blood and death. He was constantly angry, constantly at the edge of his temper and ready to kill. Interestingly, he was also quite cunning and intelligent; his revenge was always blunt, but came only when he would be untouchable afterwards.

He was a ruthless murderer of innocents, an abusive husband, an abusive father, and generally a mad dog of a man, who cared nothing for his family, and cared for me only because my bloodline made me strong. At first, anyway.

Despite that, I loved him.

When my mother more or less abandoned me, and with my sister seeking my death from the age of goddamn five, he was the only to care for me. He fed me. He burped me (oh god). He cleaned my... messes. And when my phobia or nightmares kept me awake, he was the one to whisper me to sleep... even if he whispered dreams of conquest and death, his plots to put himself or me as Head or even Mizukage, and the deaths of his rivals, to help me sleep. His lullabies may have been of blood and brutality, but they comforted all the same.  
>He was the one to "teach me" (and boy was faking all that fun) how to learn to walk, to read, to talk, to run and jump (this body is far stronger than my first's, more so than can be explained by my bloodline. It made me far tougher and gave me my bone manipulation, but to be able to run, jump, and fairly easily do backflips at four years of age? I couldn't do a backflip at 22 in my first life! It must have been chakra, that ludicrous, bullshit godjuice). He taught me the basics of using my bones as actual weapons, something that saved me from my sister on several occasions. And it was he that began, using pilfered scrolls, teaching me how to use my bloodline. He carried me around, and practically pampered me, even though he offered little protection against lesser threats (like dear sister and the other children) and always, always wanted me to stand and struggle on my own.<p>

He offered me support. He offered me a sort of love, something I had been deprived of in my previous life. He offered me everything I could have in this life; and all he asked was loyalty.

Filial piety has always been something I valued. Loyalty had to be earned.

The rest of my family kept themselves at a distance; my aunt and uncle, the younger siblings of the family, kept themselves at a supporting distance; ready to obey their dominating older brother in whatever he ordered, far enough away to make clear they obeyed only because he forced it. My aunt feared me and seemed to avoid me a bit, but was utterly contemptuous of my sister so it wasn't to an unusual degree. My uncle seemed to find everything amusing to some degree or another, and often enjoyed teasing my father... as far as he dared. Both were Chunin, from what I understood, and not terribly likely to live long enough to advance beyond it, given the war. The Kaguya were at the front, and while our resilience and many medics kept our casualties lower than they could be, not a month went by without someone failing to come back.

Indeed, my grandparents, as far as I knew, were very much dead. I knew nothing of them, save that both couples had at least one person from the Kaguya clan; Naoka and Father were first cousins; a common attempt to keep the bloodline from thinning. Rather gross, and genetically dangerous, but what is is. And it was an arranged marriage; the Kaguya feared one thing most of all, and that was the thinning of blood, the one thing that tied them together. No Kaguya married of their own will, and most married young to ensure plenty of children. Probably yet another way the clan managed to survive despite being a bunch of blood mad nutjobs who thought strategy was a synonym for cowardice.

Finally; Kirigakure.

Kirigakure was...

A city of bloodlines, with more bloodline clans within it than any other Hidden Village.

A city of violence, where savagery and viciousness ruled above all other virtues.

A city of apathy, where the strong excelled on their own or died in the gutters, where none cared for you save yourself.

The Kaguya fitted in what I had seen of Kirigakure very well; the only difference was that the rest of the village seemed to understand subtlety a bit better than us.

It was a city torn between the terrifyingly powerful bloodlines that protected it, and the common shinobi and villagers that made up the bulk of it. It really, really didn't surprise me that a Bloodline purge occurred under Yagura, and I had only seen a small glimpse or three of the city. It was, despite that, a far, far better place than Konoha in my opinion. Here, I have to worry about being murdered. There... Danzo.

I far prefer the Kaguya. And I far prefer to be Hani; Hatred.

The most important thing about my fourth birthday (not something actually celebrated in Kiri) was this; I was to be entered into the Academy early.

This was, apparently, pretty common; any child that showed uncommon talent (or, here in Kiri, any child willing, because who cares if an orphan or street rat wants to throw himself in the grinder before he's ready? Not our problem if he dies) was welcome in the academy.  
>My father had actually held me be back some; he wanted time to ensure his heir wasn't going to be knifed by some random bully, or more likely my sister, before I was capable of truly defending myself. Still, he was an ambitious man, and was only willing to wait so long.<br>Until now, apparently. I was given a clan outfit (mandatory in Kiri; by custom if not law, nobody wanted to offend the wrong bloodline by accident, and the clans, or at least mine, used it as a sort of unifying force), a beige-grey robe and purple belt (which gave me a chuckle thinking of that ludicrous Oto back-bow) and of course, the ritual clan tattoo- two red dots on my forehead.

In my first life (still weird to say that) I had gotten a large tattoo on my right shoulder; a symbol of the fictional god Slaanesh, as a joke, a tribute to my nerd-hood, and a tribute to my love of gluttony and sensation. It had taken about an hour, and there had been no small amount of blood and a bit of pain. A rather interesting experience in truth. It was done with a series of closely placed small needles vibrated at incredible speeds, which went through my skin as if it was not even there.

In comparison, despite my new resistance to harm and trauma, getting two small red dot tattoos on my forehead, done with hollow bone needles, took nearly three hours and hurt like a motherfucker.

Still, I did not cry, and got a smile from Father for it, so worth it. I've always like signs of being apart of something greater...

Ahem, I was not given any other supplies; school supplies were provided in the academy, and my bloodline, even inexperienced with it as I was, rendered the need for kunai or other blades irrelevant.

Father... he walked me to the academy gates, gave me a hug, warned me to not show any weakness or else, and then sent me on my way, ignoring the incredulous stares of bystanders at a Kaguya hugging someone and not killing them during it.

I looked to the large, blocky grey building, and prepared myself for the start of my career as a murderous mercenary monster. An awful alliterative career.

Filial piety demanded I obey. Damn my attachment.

I marched forth. And promptly ran directly into a nightmare of the future.


End file.
